


On Sparrows and Honeybees

by Aris_Silverfin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Belly Kink, Case Fic, Established Relationship, Gen, M/M, Weight Gain, chubby!Sherlock, retirement fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-27
Updated: 2014-07-26
Packaged: 2018-02-10 14:37:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2028756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aris_Silverfin/pseuds/Aris_Silverfin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes has just solved the greatest case of his career, perhaps the greatest case the world has ever known. This leaves the consulting detective with a public image too massive for any discretion and the conviction that no other puzzle will ever prove worthy of his genius again. What's left to do but retire with his faithful Watson and watch the bees? And so, Sherlock and John move out of London, buy a cottage, and let themselves go a little. Or a lot in Sherlock's case. No reason to fear digestion slowing one down when there's nothing left to solve, right?</p><p>Well... </p><p>(chubby kink, weight gain, fat admiring within)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Milk and Honey

**Author's Note:**

> For a prompt: Sherlock and John retire in the near future (they had a big payoff and don't need money anymore or something?), so Sherlock can finally let himself go (and he really does and gains a load of weight). Then, a case comes up that only Sherlock can solve, but can he solve it when he can't run around like he used to?

The name 'Sherlock Holmes' was plastered over every newspaper and website in the world along with a picture of the rather annoyed looking detective and his faithful blogger beside him. Together, they had solved what many termed 'The Case of a Generation' or 'The Puzzle to End All Puzzles.' It had been highly secretive, Mycroft had even dipped his fingers into the pot. But the secretive nature of the case hadn't remained secret. It went the way of all the greatest secrets: everyone heard about it.

The result was that Sherlock and John were hounded by jittering cameras, journalists trying to find some new spin on the adventure, or even the occasional troop of fans. John managed to push his way through them with steadfast and practiced boring answers to do the shopping or finish his last shifts at the surgery. After their payoff from this case, neither of them would ever have to work again unless they wanted to. Sherlock as a result became more and more recluse, hardly deigning to leave the flat for anything. All other puzzles Lestrade threw his way were dismissed as boring and tedious with hardly a glance. None could hold a candle to The Puzzle to End All Puzzles.

More often than not, John would come home to find Sherlock still on the sofa, flicking aimlessly through his laptop or reading. The covers nowadays seemed to have more and more to do with insects, and predominantly bees. The hard working insects seemed to be one of the few things that Sherlock found interesting anymore.

"I've reached the pinnacle, John," he'd announced one day when another proposed case had been offered to him, "I've achieved all I can in the crime-solving field. Time to move on to something else."

And that had both astonished John, and worried him. He couldn't imagine Sherlock giving up his life's work just like that. Though in all honesty, any case he wrote up after this would sound dull in comparison. Maybe they had reached their peak. Maybe it was time to bow out, retire, and let someone else have a go.

John, now free from his duties at the surgery, spent his days looking at cottages, somewhere for he and Sherlock to go, somewhere the man could indulge his obsession with bees, but wasn't so dull that John would want to ransack to local village just to keep things interesting. One day, he found the perfect place. He hurried over to Sherlock and shoved his laptop in the other man's face, nearly upsetting the small plate of biscuits that were perched there.

"John! What in God-"

"Shh, look!" said John excitedly.

The detective frowned and looked.

"A small two bedroom, one bath, cottage on the Sussex Downs, surrounded by woods, fields, and a good sized town not ten minutes away," Sherlock read, looking deeply perplexed, "Why is this important?"

"I thought it might suit us," pressed John, nodding at the screen again, "Keep reading."

"Suit us?" asked Sherlock, but he read on. John grinned as his eyes grew wide. "T-ten bee hives already in place. Would only need new tenants..." He looked up at John, looking suddenly as excited as a five year old promised ice cream. "You found this, for... for us?"

"Yeah," replied John, smiling back and leaning in to plant a kiss on Sherlock's cheek, "Thought you might like it."

"I love it. And you. When can we move?"

John chuckled. "Well, we'd have to put in a bid first and buy it-"

"I'll contact them now," said Sherlock, fishing his mobile from his pocket and dialing the number on the webpage.

In what seemed like no time at all, they were settled into their retirement cottage. A few pieces of 221B had snuck along. Though John was sure Mrs. Hudson wouldn't begrudge them too much. She had bid them fair well, full of tears and promises to come visit. She'd be moving in with her sister as she needed some looking after now she was getting on in years. Though, as far as John and Sherlock were concerned, that woman would live forever.

They settled in well, the pair of them, finally able to lounge in each other's company, day in and day out without any other interruptions. It was just what two aging bodies needed after a life of the adventures they'd had. Sherlock was quick to order his bees and all the equipment he would need to care for them. Then he spent much of his day cataloging their behavior and progress. When the first honey came, John was quick to decree it spectacular and soon the sweet substance was paired with everything from toast, to fruit, to tea, to ice cream. John recalled a few recipes for honey cakes and biscuits as well, and that sent Sherlock on a long array of baking experiments. He was surprisingly good at it. But then as he so often scoffed, it was all down to the chemical reactions between two substances, and he'd been perfecting that for years. John didn't particularly appreciate being reminded of the more macabre side of Sherlock's experimental experience as he sank his teeth into an achingly sweet bite of cake. Still, the results were very, very good.

And so the two of them settled into their retirement together, finding a wonderful balance between lazy days in bed doing nothing, and various hobbies to keep them busy. Sherlock still took some minor cases, or some that had run cold from Lestrade. John took up jogging or walking through the nearby wooded area in the mornings, then spend the afternoons either writing in a small notebook of his own or jotting down the notes that Sherlock called to him as he buzzed around the bee hives like one of his own bees. It was on one of these occasions that John noted a difference in his partner. The clothing Sherlock wore, had been quite loose when they moved in. Now it seemed to fit him, there was even a small rounding at the middle, like an emerging potbelly... Then again, John supposed he shouldn't be surprised. Sherlock had disdained exercise that didn't have a purpose of hunting down a criminal, and now he was definitely eating more than he usually did. He looked well, though, seemed in good spirits and energy and so John didn't bring it up.

That is until one day when he came back from his morning run and walked in on Sherlock slathering another slice of toast with butter and honey. The loaf next to him had been complete and newly purchased the night before, now it was nearly over halfway gone.

"Ah, John, come. You must taste this latest batch! I think the chamomile flowers we planted for the bees were utilized," he said excitedly, taking another bite and humming with pleasure, his tongue sneaking out to lick the sticky taste from his lips. "Yes, definitely, sweet but with an aroma of chamomile."

John, who had been staring quite a bit, at last chuckled and then stepped over and sat down. He sighed and accepted the next piece of bread that popped up before adding butter and honey as Sherlock had done. He glanced down and noted that Sherlock's belly was looking really rather round, nearly poking out of his pajamas.

Sherlock merely prepared himself another slice. John shook his head in amazement.

"Don't you think you ought to slow down a bit, er, you'll make yourself sick," said John, biting into his own toast with honey. It was rather nice, still almost cloyingly sweet, but then Sherlock's sweet tooth never seemed to get enough.

Sherlock sniffed and took a sip of his tea and replied, "No I won't. And whyever would I do that? After a lifetime of depriving myself for the work, don't you think I deserve a bit of indulgence?"

"Yeah," murmured John, finishing off his own toast and going for a second slice, "You're right, love. You do deserve it. No more 'digestion slows me down.' That's good. I was always worried about you not eating before." He smiled as Sherlock continued to eat to his heart's content, which lately seemed to be more than his stomach's content. If the loud burbling was anything to go by. Still, that too became less angry, more of a well-fed purr as time went on. It was good to see the hard-working man finally relax and enjoy himself, the simple pleasures in life.

That wasn't to say it was without consequence however, though to John, it didn't seem to be much of a consequence, it was very near reward. After months and years of nagging Sherlock to eat, yearning to see those ribs and hipbones vanish underneath a cozy layer of fat and flesh, it was finally becoming reality. And he didn't even have to lift a finger. Sherlock was actually feeding himself, and doing a ruddy good job of it too. He actually had a belly now, a real, squashy, poochy belly, on his middle. It made it's presence known in the most endearing ways, rounding out over the ex-detective's trousers as he sat, hanging down merrily as the man bent down during his work, poking up endearingly as Sherlock reclined on a sun chair, his hands perched atop it. By far John's favorite however was how it sometimes pressed against him, warm and inviting, either from behind or against his own middle while the two of them laid together in bed.

There was definitely a lot more Sherlock to grab onto now, every time there seemed to be more and more. More fleshy hips and plump thighs. More jiggling bum. More cushioned chest. More warm belly. Just... more. The sex was truly spectacular, both seemed in the mood more often now that they had all the time in the world to indulge in each other. It was becoming harder and harder not to touch that growing belly, the temptation increasing with each added bit of pudge. John had refrained so far, afraid of touching it in case it drew attention to something Sherlock was self-conscious about. But the day finally came that, as John was rutting into his partner's well-cushioned arse, John couldn't deny his curiosity any longer. That belly looked so plush, so adorably chubby. He reached for it and began kneading and caressing the new softness in his fingers, rolling it lightly as he continued to thrust his hips steadily. It turned out that John needn't have worried about it because Sherlock arched into the contact, gave a surprised, choked gasp, and then came in a long low groan without further warning. John made sure to pay a lot more attention to Sherlock's belly in future. The ex-detective grew increasingly vocal in response. Yeah. They could afford some comfortable retirement weight. Perhaps even a bit more.

But, it turned out that consulting detectives, especially when there was only one in the world, never exactly retired. John awoke one morning to Sherlock's mobile buzzing like an angry hornet against the bedside table. He grunted and elbowed Sherlock in his squishy side. The ex-detective grumbled and reached over, hand smacking aimlessly, knocking what sounded like a bottle of lube to the floor, before finally stopping the buzzing with a grunted, "Yes?"

John rolled over and slid a hand under the covers, playing with Sherlock's belly as he listened sleepily to whoever was on the phone.

"Telemarketers?" John asked, his voice gruff with sleep. Sherlock shook his head, then sat up, looking suddenly far away.

"Sherlock? What's the matter?"

"Shh. Yes. Yes. Of course I can. I understand. It's no trouble at all, Gabriel. Sorry. Greg. Yes, I'll come as soon as I can," said Sherlock, his voice back to the snappy quick tone of a detective at work. John felt his heart sink slightly. Sherlock hung up, then swung his legs out of bed and went to rummage through his closet, digging to the back and finding his bespoke suits.

"Was that Lestrade?" John asked, still sitting on the bed where Sherlock had left him.

"Yes," replied Sherlock, smiling broadly and tossing the garments onto the bed, then beginning to strip off his pajamas, "We have a case it would seem. Get dressed, Dr. Watson! The game is on!"

John sighed and slid out of bed. He should be excited, some action at last! But maybe retirement had tempered him. Oh God, he was starting to sound like an old man. He tugged out a pair of jeans and a good jumper, then dressed quickly. He heard a loud huff beside him and looked over. Then his jaw dropped.

Sherlock was trying to get his old trousers on, battling to get them over even his thighs. He grunted and huffed, tugging at the material and bouncing on his feet so that every fleshy bit of flab on his frame jiggled and bounced in kind.

"B-blasted-hah-washing-fuh-should never have... gah!Only sodding dry cleaning!" The man grunted, then managed to get them to his bum. The poor trousers looked about to tear in two around his arse, and that button was never going to meet the hole. There was a loud pop and the bottom of the zipper burst.

Sherlock growled in response and flung himself back on the bed, kicking his legs to work them off of himself again.

"John! What have you done to these?" he demanded.

John blinked, "What have I done? Not a bloody thing."

"Then how do you explain this? Hmm?"

"Well, you have been eating more of-"

Sherlock snarled, and threw the too small garment away. He chose a pair of the grey trousers he had bought more recently and tugged them on. "Honestly, John. I think I would know if I had gained weight. My metabolism runs high. I could eat whatever I liked as a teenager and not gain an ounce!"

"You're not a teenager anymore," John pointed out, though softly. Sherlock might not have heard him, or at least pretended not to hear him.

The detective snatched one of his old shirts and set to buttoning that. John could see he had to visibly suck it in, and even then, the buttons looked ready to spring off. Sherlock relaxed once all were up. He gave a pleased sigh. The result was a handful of cheerful little pops and then the man's great pale belly flopped out again. John bit the inside of his cheek hard. He wasn't sure if he wanted to laugh or pin Sherlock against the wall. But if the color in Sherlock's cheeks was any indication, it might be better to keep his distance.

Sherlock tore the shirt back off and tossed it unceremoniously on the floor, before throwing the suit jacket a mistrustful look and selecting a more recent white button up and the gray jacket that complemented his trousers.

"Well, what are you waiting for. Call for a car!" Sherlock snapped, having done up his buttons and tugging his Belstaff from the back of the closet.

John gave Sherlock a warning look, but decided to let the prat have his strop and then went to do as bidden. Soon after, they were off back to London, John chewing on a protein bar as Sherlock had been vehemently against any form of breakfast. The detective in question sat brooding next to him. The Belstaff was conspicuously absent.


	2. The Sparrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock are back on the case! But will Sherlock's new figure slow the pair down?

In what seemed like no time at all, they were back in London, trundling down streets they knew so well, had walked or run down so often. It was a peculiar feeling, but quite... Good all the same. Then they were at Scotland Yard and strolling in to see Lestrade Just like old times. John had to admit, he'd missed this.

"Here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade, I'll be going in now," Sherlock informed the lad at the desk, before striding past.

"Oi, no one goes in without proper ID and a proper check," said the young officer, "And the _Chief_ Detective Inspector is only expecting Mr. Sherlock Holmes today, sir. He's very busy."

Sherlock froze, John raised his eyebrows. Must be new.

"This is Sherlock Holmes," John replied, "lived under a rock have you?"

The officer stared for a long moment, then hit the button under his desk. "Yeah, sorry. Been a while. Go on in."

Sherlock marched through and John followed, with the distinct impression that the recruit was holding back choked laughter. Thankfully Sherlock's mind was entrenched in their current business so he didn't seem to notice. They found Lestrade's office, the only difference a marked increase in paper work and another name on the front of the door. The silver-haired man stood to meet them, offering a companionably embrace.

"Good to see you two again, I've been missing meeting you for a pint, John," said Lestrade, smiling warmly, "Let me tell you I've got a load of shit bottled up from this promotion. I could do with a vent. But it'll have to wait until after this matter's cleared up."

John laughed and gave his friend a clap on the shoulder, "Well, we'll have this sorted for you quickly then. I might be able to grab one before we head off home again."

"Ah, yeah. So Sussex treating you well then? Liking the countryside? I can see it's done Sherlock a ton of good," added the detective inspector, offering him a one armed embrace as well.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the man and Greg quickly put his hands in his pockets instead. "But, where are my manners, sit. Please." He gestured to two chairs and went to sit in his own. John sat, but Sherlock remained standing.

"Yes, yes. Now that all these _pleasantries_ are out of the way, I believe you said you had a case for me. When will this Sparrow strike again?" Sherlock said, looking firmly at Lestrade, "Speak quickly and I may prevent the death of another victim."

"Oh, she's not killing them," said Lestrade, leaning back in his chair a bit, "She's stealing from them."

"Didn't think robbery was your division," said John mildly as Sherlock looked deeply annoyed.

"I've branched out a bit since the two of you left," answered the Chief Detective Inspector.

Sherlock sniffed and crossed his arms moodily. "So now you can't even be arsed to catch a simple theif? You have to call me in? You have the name, you have the items stolen, it should not be more than a week's work. Even for someone like you who is dull enough to try to lure me in on false pretenses."

"Sherlock!" John snapped.

"I never once said 'murder,' you just assumed," sighed Lestrade, then shook his head, "Look, I'm at the end of my rope. She tells us every time what she's taken. Leaves a note. And we've never so much as seen her."

"How do you know it's a woman then?" asked John. The Detective Inspector rummaged in a drawer and pulled out a file. He flipped it open and revealed its contents to be several sheets of paper or newspaper, all of different sorts, written on in marker, pencil or pen. John began leafing through a few. Sherlock reluctantly leaned over his shoulder to look as well.

"They... they're all from the locations where she stole," he murmured, "Clever not to use her own trademark stationary." He plucked one note from the pile and held it up to the light. "Isabelle Sparrow. A pseudonym, clearly. Female handwriting, though sloppy. Printed rather than cursive. Even the signature. Educated, smart enough to know not to sign. But cocky. Young, impulsive. So, a young woman. I would wager near university age."

The man's sharp eyes flitted over the goods stolen. "Expensive tastes. Risky. Oh, she's good."

Lestrade nodded and added, "And that's why I need you, Sherlock. She's running circles around us, maki-"

"Making the entire police force a laughing stock. I _do_ like her," he chuckled. John rolled his eyes.

"We'll find her. Any leads on her whereabouts?" John pressed.

Lestrade shook his head and replied, "A couple, but they're more to do with which house she might hit next. Not about her whereabouts or real name or anything." He slid a list over.

"Ten possibilities?"

"Yeah, or well nine. She hit this one this morning," added Lestrade, reaching over and crossing one off near the middle with a resigned air.

Soon, information gathered, Sherlock and John were off again. They were to find a hotel, something that Sherlock had found utterly mortified, even more so than the idea of _other people_ living in a flat that was once theirs.

"Can't we just get them to move out?"

"No, love."

"It's ours. I'll tell them, in explicit detail, about every bit of floor, wall, and counter top we've had sex on."

"NO, YOU WILL NOT!"

And with that, they decided to settle in at a rather nice suite a couple of blocks over and set to work. Their return didn't go unnoticed of course, but it took people a while to cotton on, Sherlock's altered physique, lack of coat (For now, John was deligently trying to find him a replacement to soothe the man's frail ego.), and perhaps something to do with Mycroft's weighing in on the media. He seemed to delight in doing so only for the sole amusement of gloating over Sherlock's weight gain.

"Hello, brother mine," a cool voice had called as a black government issued car glided up next to them as they were returning home after a day of investigation.

"Piss off, Mycroft," Sherlock grunted in response, walking a bit faster. Sadly, as a consequence, he was waddling a bit.

"I see Sussex treated you well. I suppose it has truly become the land of milk and honey to appeal to your palate so."

"Yes, it's lovely. Goodbye," said John, looking determinedly forward.

"I retired, it happens," Sherlock snapped, "You of all people should know what lack of leg work causes, brother _dear_. I wager you'll look rather like a while when you retire. All those wasted cakes over the years..."

"Oh, I shan't retire," said Mycroft sniffily, "My job is far too important. Well, speaking of, I must be going. Do help yourself to room service, I'll foot the bill. That appetite of yours must have grown." The car sped up just as Sherlock told Mycroft to do something really quite rude. Then, cheeks red, both from his quickened pace and Mycroft's taunting, Sherlock pushed the hotel door open and vanished within, nearly smacking the door into John's face. Sure enough, there was already a rather nice dinner spread waiting for them in their room. Sherlock grumbled something about his brother, but then eventually relented and tucked in alongside John. Now whenever a shiny black car beetled around the corner, Sherlock took a sharp detour and entered their hotel from the side entrance.

It took Sherlock just under a week to pinpoint the thief's next hit. It had been narrowed down to two by Sherlock's reasoning. The actual choice was left up to chance. And so the two of them paid a visit to a very nice, if old-fashioned, abode near the river. The residents were on holiday, as Sherlock's homeless network had reported, and so the two of them let themselves in the back door and spent the afternoon waiting for dusk.

"So tell me, why's she so hard to catch?" John asked as he sat back with a chocolate Digestive later on. They had decided the owners wouldn't mind if they raided the larder while catching a thief who was set on things much more pricey than a few biscuits. Even Sherlock had given into hunger. He seemed somehow less resilient after their stint of retirement. His appetite had been awoken and grown too demanding to let him fast during a case.

"It's well known that the people of today spend their time looking at screens, looking down, bustling from place to place. We're used to our environment, the wonder has dried. And so we often forget to look up," replied Sherlock, munching on his own packet of biscuits

"Meaning?"

"Meaning that our thief will emerge from above. We're likely to meet her on the rooftops tonight." Sherlock looked pleased as he said it, but John was suddenly experiencing some doubt in their ability to... chase her down that way. They weren't... er, as young as they once were.

"Sherlock, maybe we should call the police," John suggested gently.

The detective huffed and rolled his eyes. "The police are idiots," he spat, "And any idiocy tonight will mean the Sparrow keeps flying free. I have little doubt that she would learn from the exchange, alter her tactics and be nearly impossible to catch as a result in future."

They lapsed into silence, made their way through a few biscuit packets and a carton of apple juice. Then, just as it was growing dark and John had started to nod off, there was a tiny squeak, then the click of a latch from above.

"Sherlock," John whispered, but the man was already awake, looking intently at the ceiling. Sherlock nodded, then slipped up the nearby staircase that lead to the second floor, moving as quietly as he could on the old boards. John followed after, crouching with the detective as what looked like the trapdoor to the attic fell open and a ladder folded out with a clunk. A pair of shiny black boots stepped down from it, landing silently on the carpet on soft soles. They lead to black leggings and a form fitting dark jacket, fastened in place by a belt that was carrying several pouches and bags made of soft sturdy material to muffle any clinking or clanking from stolen goods. Her hands were gloved and her hair was tied back and hidden under a black cap to prevent any hairs from being left behind. Her dark brown eyes, peered around the house, but her stance was relaxed. She clearly wasn't expecting anyone to be home. She tugged the balaclava from her mouth and nose to breath better, revealing her face. She was... very young.

Barely 25 by the looks of it. Her complexion was clear and dark, with high cheekbones and a heart-shaped face. John took her in quickly, trying to memorize in case she escaped or could be identified. He supposed he needn't bother with Sherlock there, but the detective didn't always put much store by people or their appearance. They stepped together from the shadows, and Sherlock called out.

"Miss Sparrow, I presume?"

"Shit!" swore the young woman, whirling back around to face them. John took a step forward, moving in to block her way to the ladder. He underestimated her however and got a sharp elbow to the gut as she leapt past him and then back up into the attic.

"After her!" barked Sherlock, grabbing the ladder and hurrying up it in kind. John wheezed and then followed suit. There was a loud grunt and some vague shouting. Then high bubbling laughter.

"Stuck in a window, Mr. Holmes?" the young woman taunted from the rooftop, "Well, you'll need to get a bit more nimble to catch a Sparrow! Maybe you should take up a jogging regime! Drop a few stone! Toodle-oo!" There was another cackle.

"John!" shouted Sherlock, and then the doctor saw him. Or well, half of him. John did his best not to laugh. The detective had tried to follow the theif through a half open old window, it was a tight squeeze even for a smaller person. Now Sherlock was stuck halfway through, the window frame catching him tightly around the middle and hips. John allowed himself a second to admire the plush arse before him, then stepped in to help wrench the man from the window. It took a few good solid heaves and then the two of them fell back against the floor.

"M-misjudged the opening? She got away, yeah?" John asked. Sherlock scowled.

"Just a minor delay," he wheezed, then got to his feet and began tucking his shirt back into his trousers primly. "I did manage to gather a small clue for us." The detective grinned and held up what looked like a shopping list. "We've got her."

"She's bound to notice you took it from her," said John, nervously. "We need to catch her before she flees."

"Correct. I expect we should make a visit to 'Nicky'," replied Sherlock, showing John the message. It listed a few grocery items and was signed with a heart and a kiss by someone named Nicky. The paper was stamped with _Bloomsbury Residencies Visit us at www. uniplaces. co. uk._

John looked up at Sherlock. "You think-"

"Worth a try," replied Sherlock curtly, then hurried towards the ladder, "Come on, John!"


	3. Nests and Hives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John follow their clue to find out the identity of their thief.

The detective and his blogger hurried to the address from the Sparrow's shopping list. They spoke to the manager to get an idea of which flat the Sparrow and Nicky were taking up residency. The rather severe looking woman gave them a mistrustful look, not realising who they were at first.

"I'm looking for a tall black girl about 23, an American I'd wager," said Sherlock curtly, "And a roommate called Nicky. Scotland Yard has a few questions for them."

She continued glowering at them. "And just what do you want with them eh?"

Sherlock huffed. "Look, I'm Sherlock Holmes. I am on a case, this is Dr. John Watson. Now if you could please-"

"Oooh! The famous detective! Yes, of course. You look different in the photographs!" She sniggered and Sherlock flushed. John gave her his politest and most dangerous smile. She hardly seemed to notice as she blabbered on.

"Try 230 A. I think those two might be who you're looking for," she replied, looking excited, "Oh, I expect the press will be all over this! I'll have to find my lipstick."

Sherlock didn't even take the time to roll his eyes as he rushed back out to the buildings and began striding ahead, panting and puffing slightly until he found the proper number.

"American?" asked John, confused.

"Yes, her accent was clearly affected. Far too pompous for a girl her age," Sherlock replied without looking back at John. He stepped up to the next door and knocked firmly. It was answered by a short chubby girl with large grey eyes. "Er, hello?"

"Hello," returned Sherlock, "Are you the only resident here? Just a couple of quick questions."

"I.. no, my girlfriend will be back in a few minutes, she's just gone to get some shopping. Can I ask what this is about?"

"Drugs bust," Sherlock replied without a thought. John groaned slightly. The girl looked petrified.

"L-look, we don't have any of that here! Just a few beers! And we're both of age!"

"All the same, we are required to have a look," Sherlock pressed, flashing Lestrade's badge at her too quickly for her to see, "Unless you think there's a reason for concern."

"No! No, not at all. Just. Oh God. Okay," said the girl, unlatching the door. She had her mobile firmly in hand as she stepped back, eying them nervously.

"Your name?" rumbled Sherlock, striding past.

"N-nicole Summerdale," the girl replied, watching as Sherlock swept around the small flat.

"And your girlfriend's name?"

"Kelly Michaels," answered Nicky uncertainly, "She doesn't get up to anything either. I'm really sorry, but I think one of the neighbors called you in as a joke. They're always taking the Mickey out of us, you know."

"Quite alright," said Sherlock dismissively, sitting back on the sofa and pulling out his mobile, "I'd just like to stay until Miss Micheals arrives. That alright?"

"I-yeah, I s'pose so," Nicky said, her hand clasped awkwardly in front of her. "Er, should I make tea or?"

"That's alright, thanks though," said John, smiling at her to try to calm her down. "So, you're both students then?"

"Yeah, on summer holiday now of course, but we go to uni together. She's moved over from America to study. We hit it off Freshman year since we were both interested in neuroscience and had a lot of classes together. Just moved in here last semester. It's been a bit hard getting ends to meet, but we manage. We both work too, outside of studying."

John nodded, finding this quite significant. Sherlock looked far away, his hands steepled under his chin. Still John pressed on, feeling that Nicky might be just nervous enough to reveal something.

"Where at?" asked John, keeping his tone light and conversational, the sort of chatting that happens when two unacquainted parties are waiting awkwardly together.

"Oh, er, I'm at the Starbucks down the street. Kelly works in retail. Sometimes her hours really suck, but it's good money," Nicky replies with a shrug.

"Ah, that's good."

"Yeah."

There was a rustle at the door and Sherlock leapt to his feet, startling both of them.

"Hey, Nicky! Sorry about that, there were so many people at the store and-"

The girl who had just entered froze, taking in the two men.

"Hello," she said carefully. She was no longer dressed in black clothing and soft soled shoes, her hair had been let down. But it was without a doubt the Sparrow.

"Sorry, I didn't get to warn you," said Nicky, walking over to take some of the bags from her girlfriend, "We've, er, got two guests. I think the two next door are having a laugh. They're-"

"It's fine. Nicky, could you put this away?" she asked, shoving more bags at her and then shoving her towards the kitchen. Then Kelly, or Isabelle, turned and came back towards them. "I don't suppose there's any chance you'll believe I have a twin sister?"

"No," answered Sherlock simply, looking down at her.

"Didn't think so." She gritted her teeth and managed a small grin. "Okay, then. You caught me breaking into a house, but not taking anything. And you being you, they'll take your word as evidence."

"As well as your arrival at a scheduled Sparrow hit, yes," said Sherlock, nodding.

Kelly bit her lip, "What about Nicky? Look, she doesn't know anything. She can stay out of this right?"

John crossed his arms and shrugged. "If you want to keep lying to her, sure."

"I don't _want_ to," Kelly snapped, then collected herself again, "It's just... God, do you know how hard it is to get a student loan in a country you're not from?"

"No, but I can imagine-"

"Really fricking hard. Look, I just needed a boost and-"

"You're breaking into houses and stealing other people's possessions," replied Sherlock flatly. Kelly sighed.

"Yeah," she said, "I am. But... but if you promise not to tell Nicky, or... or anyone, I'll stop."

John raised his eyebrows. "And how can we be sure?"

"Look, you know who I am, if another weird, but really well done theft comes up, you can tell the yard my name and everything and I'll confess, I just... I don't want Nicky involved. Or hurt," implored the thief, "I've... I've had a good run. But I'll get an honest job. If anyone finds out, God, if they ship me back to my folks in Illinois? I'll never see Nicky again! Just... just please. I have enough for just the month. I never planned to keep going, but-"

"But it was exciting," said Sherlock, looking Kelly over still.

"Yeah, it was. It's a little... but I know I have to stop. I'm good, but," she swallowed, "You caught me."

"You grew careless. Best not to do your girlfriend's shopping on the same night as a heist. But, not to worry. I'm sure my reputation can withstand losing one thief," said Sherlock, straightening his shirt and then heading to the door, "You'll only hear from me if I hear from you again. Come along, John."

John stared, looking from his lover to the poor girl who was now almost trembling with shock. The doctor joined his detective.

"Sherlock, you mean you just want to lie?" he whispered.

"Yes. She's bright, brilliant in fact. It would be a waste to throw that in a cage for stealing a few crumbs here and there."

"The people she stole from might disagree."

"Quite likely. But they won't know it. I think this Sparrow should fly free," replied Sherlock, nodding to Kelly, who blinked and then had to sit down on the sofa a minute. "Finish her studies. If she's half as good a neuroscientist as she's proven herself a burglar, she's going to save quite a few lives in future. I'd hate to rob her of that chance."

Kelly gave them a small grateful smile. "Th-thank you. I won't waste it. I promise."

Sherlock nodded and took John's hand. The doctor nodded to the young girl as well. "Good luck," he said, then allowed his lover to lead him from the small flat. The manager bustled up, lurid lipstick well-placed.

"Ah! Did you find them, Mr. Holmes?" she asked excitedly.

"No, I'm afraid the lead was false," Sherlock replied, "Now if you'll excuse us, my partner and I have more important business to attend to."

He strode past her, John in tow, then hailed a cab.

"Important business?" asked John.

"Dinner at Angelo's," answered Sherlock as he texted Lestrade to say their leads had dried up. There was a loud rumble from the detective's stomach. "Then it's back to Sussex. I imagine the bees will have made more honey than I know what to do with."

"Oh, I'm sure we'll think of something," said John, grinning and giving his lover's belly a pat. The detective's cheeks pinked slightly as he looked down at his doctor. He squeezed John's hand.

"Yes, I expect we will."

It turned out that the honey produced during their temporary un-retirement was enough to make four pots of honey butter, several hot toddys, three types of biscuits, two varieties of cake, several loaves of banana bread, and still enough left over to top whatever else they were eating. And, well, a celebration was in order after a case so they found it reasonable to try them all. And so they settled back into retirement, groaning and sighing with sweet-stuffed stomachs. Neither man could have been happier to be home again.


End file.
